


One ice cube, one and a half personal heaters

by elzierav



Series: The Lasagna Series [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Andy's monthly birthday, Blankets, Bottom James Ironwood, Cuddles, Drowning, Gift Fic, Happy Ending, Help chibi, Hypothermia, Imaginary Love Triangle, Lucky IronQrow, M/M, OT3, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Prosthetics, Sick Character, basically like, but nothing bad really happens, but with smut, everything is soft and nothing hurts, fish soup, hurt birb boi, it's late and I can't tag, like Help except everything is fine, like they believe it's a love triangle but actually all three of these dorks like all the others, mentions of lasagna, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26636758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: Three certain idiots may or may not have feelings for one another. But they can’t see it for some reason or other. Someone just needs to break the ice.Fortunately, someone has a bad luck semblance.
Relationships: Clover Ebi/James Ironwood, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi/James Ironwood, Qrow Branwen/James Ironwood
Series: The Lasagna Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073786
Comments: 10
Kudos: 56





	One ice cube, one and a half personal heaters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AndyAstral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndyAstral/gifts).



> Riding this bandwagon where we all gift smut to Andy, apparently. Because that’s now a thing, apparently.  
> Also can you believe I’d never written OT3 smut? I had to rectify that slight.

Clover’s eyes widen in panic. He precipitantly flicks his pin. He needs all the luck in Remnant on his side. 

But even all the luck isn’t enough, as the massive Alpha Megoliath violently flicks its gigantic head, sending the Ace Op leader flying through the icy air, the line of his Kingfisher tightly wrapped around the Grimm’s deadly tusk. The world flies in a frozen blur past his eyes, time stops, time freezes. He can barely distinguish a fast-moving splodge of red as Qrow rushes toward him, cape trailing in the breeze, yelling something he can’t quite comprehend. 

The shock with the icy ground is brutal. He gasps, the frozen air knocked out of his lungs. He can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t think for long seconds, too long seconds. He can only thank his luck that the surface of the frozen lake remained intact under the impact - he probably landed on a particularly thick patch of ice. Somehow, his fishing line remains connected to the creature’s bony head, and at the familiar sound of whirring cogs signalling Qrow turned his weapon into its scythe form, eyeing the entangled Grimm from a distance, an idea caresses the Operative’s mind. 

Flipping Kingfisher around, he presses a lever that releases the harpoon at the butt of his weapon. The projectile flies out at full speed, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is the recoil that pushes Clover back, his side slipping freely against the ice of the frozen lake. And at the other end of the line, the Megoliath is slipping just as fast despite the struggles of its oversized flailing paws, and that’s what matters. 

The Specialist doesn’t even need to signal to his partner - Qrow’s already seizing his chance, dancing his deadly way between the creature’s mighty feet. Each kick from the frantic stampede can crush the Huntsman into a pulp, but he moves with savage grace, as if oblivious of the danger. Clover can’t help but stare, even after months of the two of them working together on the field. Teal eyes follow intently as the shapeshifter bends backward acrobatically to avoid giant paws slamming down, then hooks the curved blade of his weapon around a low-swooping trunk to increase his momentum. 

And exactly at the right place, exactly at the right time, the lethally sharp tip of Harbinger sinks into the opening offered by chaotically flailing Grimm limbs, slicing its way into a vulnerable, slimy black neck. Mere seconds elapse before the immense dark creature towering over him collapses into a cloud of sooty particles. 

“Close call, lucky charm,” the shifter pants, lightly resting the tip of his weapon on the ground in exertion. 

“I can hear the rest of the pack on its way.”

“Their Alpha’s dead, they might already be running away from us.”

Clover holds his breath. Carefully listening to the sound of footsteps across the frozen tundra. Footsteps that near the two Huntsmen at first, but don’t pause before racing past them until they fade into the distance. 

“You’re right, they’re leaving us alone… Lucky us, don’t you -”

They don’t stay lucky for long. A deafening  _ crack  _ resonates. Fractures form where the tip of Harbinger rested and sprawl out like lightning on thin ice. 

And before either Huntsman can react, the ground gives way under Qrow’s feet. 

And he plummets. 

Clover can only watch in terror as the murky, icy waters engulf his partner, whose struggles only tear up more ice around him while the weight of his weapon keeps dragging him down, down… He shifts into his bird form, cawing and flailing frantically - but it’s too late already, cold water having seeped deep between his feathers, ice crystals already forming upon his jet-black wings. Swiping his thumb around his pin again, the Ace Op tosses the line of his Kingfisher. But the drowning bird wriggles too fast to be safely reeled in, blood-red eyes already too cluttered with snowy shards to see the rope waltzing around its talons. 

With a heavy sigh, Clover discards his weapon and leaps in. He doesn’t care about how cold the water is. He doesn’t care about the sharp beak and claws that can pierce his skin. He doesn’t care about the approaching pack of Grimm, drawn in by the negative emotions. He only wants, must, need to,  _ will  _ save Qrow. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs. 

Without hesitation, he dives ahead, his body forming an elegant arch… that promptly crumples against a drifting sheet of ice, causing him to land flat on his abdomen. Pain sears into his skin, into his muscles, into his gut. The ice plaque tilts onto his side before resurfacing, the opposite end sprouting into the air and kicking the avian out of the water. Slowly regaining his balance into an unsteady crouch, Clover sighs in relief as the crow lands on an undamaged portion of the ice, cawing in protest. 

Relief doesn’t last long. 

The Operative’s heart sinks as Qrow’s aura shatters on impact, shimmering away as he recovers his human form, slumped and shivering atop the ice. Clover rushes to his side, wrapping him in his strongest, warmest embrace. But the silhouette in his arms remains unresponsive, shaking too much to react even to vigorous shakes, lips quivering too much to produce coherent speech. Clover’s heart tightens in his chest, nearing the point of bursting, at the sight of those long, dark eyelashes too cluttered in newly formed snowflakes for the familiar crimson eyes to even blink open… 

He has to do something. 

He has to do something. 

Pressing his earpiece with trembling fingers while still holding Qrow in his arms, he hails his commanding officer, calling for immediate assistance. He doesn’t register the response as he mindlessly says words, listens to words, words that don’t make sense because the person who’s been making his life make sense as of late is here, frozen and shivering and unreactive between his arms. 

He doesn’t realise that time is passing because time is frozen solid now, frozen like the body he cradles desperately, devoid of any heat to radiate out. When did he start caring so much? Qrow and Clover aren’t lovers, just awkward friends with benefits who went on not-dates every so often and more importantly, Huntsmen and partners in the field. When did it start? It doesn’t matter, because time is frozen and each second before help comes trickles slowly, too slowly, impossibly slowly like the tears that turn to ice before they can even well out of the Ace Op’s eyes. 

Clover doesn’t know when or how, against silence and eternity and frozen time, an idea forms in his mind. Not the greatest of ideas, but that will have to suffice. 

“Uh, if you turned back into a bird, I could just put you in my vest and keep all of you warm more effectively? Oh… sorry that sounded really awkward… just forget what I said. If you can even hear me, anyway. Please, please, give me a sign that you can hear me. Please, Qrow.”

More time, too much time, too frozen time elapses before an airship swoops down into the Operative’s field of vision. By this point, Clover’s fingertips are numb, all the way to his palms, to his arms, even his mind is numb. Too numb to register at the first that the General himself is peering down at his Specialist inquisitively, no doubt wondering why a small crow has made its nest into the sturdy fabric of his uniform. 

“Come aboard, Captain,” James finally orders, losing no time so they can all depart from that gods-forsaken tundra. 

* * *

“Operative Ebi.”

“General Ironwood, sir.”

This is just your average debrief. They’re in the General’s office, as usual. Clover stands ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind his back, as usual. James sits at his desk, as usual. Never mind the fact that a slumbering bird currently sits in his outstretched metal palm, resting on the table. Never mind the fact that said metal palm currently has its fire Dust function activated to warm up said bird, producing a faint heated glow and the slightest of thrummings in the background, the heat spreading through the steel and painting the General’s cheeks with the smallest hint of an adorable blush. Never mind all that. 

Just an average meeting. Clover swallows uncomfortably. 

“You let a pack of an estimated five adult Megoliaths escape unharmed, heading south from your location, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t specify the reason why in your report.”

Clover can conceal evidence in his mission briefs, but he can hardly lie to himself. And right now, he can’t dismiss the fact that his mind and body find angry James rather attractive and hot, never mind the heater hand. Yeah, never mind that. 

“I prioritised saving my partner, being arguably the most skilled Huntsman currently in Atlas, over stopping a pack of five Megoliaths that any Penny or any other Huntress or Huntsman posted at the Mantle wall could take down if the pack came to attack the city.”

“In other words, you were lucky, Operative, that it wasn’t worse than just five Megoliaths. You were lucky, and I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Sir, I...”

The Captain’s voice falters. The weight of his pin feels too heavy, too cold against his chest. 

“What if it were worse? What if it were three packs? What if it were Salem herself with a whole Grimm army on her heels? Would you have let that slide in favour of saving Qrow? Answer me, Operative.”

The Ace Op leader has always loathed the formality that erect walls between himself and the General, hoped that James would let his guard down so he could have friends to care for him, comfort and confront him in times of need. He hoped Qrow would be that for Ironwood, when the shapeshifter and his flock of children first arrived in Atlas. But right now Qrow’s napping within the Headmaster’s palm, and not much in shape to confront anyone or anything. 

“I don’t think that even with all my luck I could have stopped Salem herself with a whole Grimm army on her heels,  _ sir _ .”

“Count yourself fortunate this time only counts as a warning, then. Next time you compromise a mission and the safety of civilians because you let your emotions come in the way, remember that the reason your career in the military skyrocketed so fast is because I willed it, and I can make it collapse just as rapidly.”

Clover blinks, unable to respond. James has always been ruling with an iron fist, but he’s always been fair. Now, there is an undercurrent of something else in his tone. Something threatening, something powerful, and Clover can’t lie and pretend that doesn’t egg him on further… 

But the Captain owes James everything, respects James with all his heart, and the least he can do is try to understand what that something else means. Possessiveness over Qrow? Jealousy of the not-relationship the shifter and the Ace Op leader entertained, while James and Qrow had known each other for so much longer? Fear that Clover may end up like Ironwood, scarred and damaged because he couldn’t set his emotions aside?

“Understood, sir. Since you are not emotionally compromised, I trust I leave Huntsman Branwen in good care literally in your hands.”

It hurts. It hurts to leave a barely conscious, shivering Qrow in the care of a man who just reprimanded human emotions, a man who wills himself and his subordinates to be more machine than man. It hurts, every breath hurts, every heartbeat hurts, every step hurts as Clover walks away from the desk, not even bothered any more that his commanding officer hasn’t dismissed him yet. 

“Please, Clover.”

The General’s voice has changed, stopping him dead in his tracks. It always sounds like velvet on steel, but sometimes there’s more velvet, sometimes there’s more steel. 

Clover wonders what it’s like, in James’s head. How cold, how dark it must be up there, all alone at the top. To be in command of each soldier, each robot, each ship in the most powerful military of all four Kingdoms. To bear the weight of Atlas and the weight of the endless sky atop it. To require every atom, every soul, every star to remain under control, perfectly aligned along their constellations. A smidge of stardust out of place, and everything would come crumbling down within his iron palm, crumbling like a castle of cards. 

“I apologise for my harsh judgement,” James says. “I just...”

“Sir?”

“It’s been a tough time lately, with the rising unrest in Mantle and all the Grimm it attracts, but that should be no excuse. I shouldn’t have treated you unfairly.”

“No worries, apologies accepted. I realise that you didn’t mean it... anything I can do to help, sir?”

There must be something he can do. There has to be a way he can help.

“Stop calling me that, please.”

“... James?”

“Clover, just promise me you won’t make the same mistakes that I did. Just promise me you won’t let emotions cloud your judgement, that you won’t let your pride dictate your decisions on the field. Because I paid the price once, so that you and everyone else don’t have to. I paid the price once, and I… I’m not sure I could bear it if I saw you suffer the same fate.”

Ironwood would give his life for his country. He would give his heart. He would give his soul. He already gave half his body. And yet… he’s selfish sometimes. And when he’s selfish, he doesn’t want Clover to suffer. And Qrow’s apparently. Clover’s heart tightens in his chest - and he isn’t sure why. But it doesn’t matter, what matters is that there must be something he can do for James.

“I… thank you, James. I appreciate the advice. I can’t even begin to realise how much it hurts, but I want to support you as much as I can. You don’t have to pay the price alone. You don’t have to bear the burden alone.”

“And I am grateful for your support, but your time is so much better spent elsewhere. Take care of Qrow, train your team and the kids… don’t waste your time on all of  _ this _ .”

The Headmaster looks down at his bird’s nest of a metal hand, at the unnatural arm attached to it, at the whole unnatural, inhuman, too hard, too smooth metal half of him. He looks like he’s not worth it, like he’s not enough of a man any more to deserve care, to deserve attention, to deserve love. But seeing the corvid practically nuzzling into Ironwood’s palm in its sleep, Qrow doesn’t seem to concur, and...

“With all due respect, James, I couldn’t disagree more.”

“... How so?”

How so? In ways that words cannot even express. In ways that combine so much gratitude, admiration, sorrow, respect, empathy, adoration that the Specialist cannot even start to convey in sentences. He wouldn’t know where to start, and James isn’t a man of words. James is a man of action - and Clover can be one too.

“... Can I give you a hug?”

James isn’t a man of words. Instead, he stands up behind his desk, careful not to disturb the sleeping avian still perched upon his hand. 

And that’s awkward. Because one, Clover is holding his superior officer in a tight embrace, and Ironwood is, well… embracing it rather than backing down. Two, the General smells nice, his cologne is exactly what Clover would have hoped for in a man of his stature and more, and that’s embarrassing, and his beard is softly tickling his subordinate’s bare shoulder because his hair is so, so soft and it’s hard to resist touching, but three, isn’t Clover supposed to be dating Qrow? But then four, Qrow and Clover are actually not in a relationship, or in a not-relationship to be precise, and now the Captain is starting to grow a headache and can’t he just enjoy hugging and being hugged for once?

No, he can’t. 

Because just their luck, a loud creak echoes from the desk, drawing them out of their embrace. The Ace Op barely notices the General’s valid hand still resting on his bicep, or his own fingers gently pressed against his commanding officer’s shoulder, when they both turn to see Qrow unknowingly shifted back to his human form on the table, his lanky limbs curled up in the tightest possible way and still shivering all over, melting ice dripping off his soaked clothing onto the pristine desktop much to Ironwood’s chagrin. 

“Qrow, you’re drenched! You’re going to get a fever if we don’t change you out of those clothes.” James says, rushing toward the desk to delicately brush the shapeshifter’s bangs aside and press a careful hand to the pale forehead, checking his friend’s temperature. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of Clover’s lips, even though he has next to no idea where it came from.

“Hey, Jimmy,” the scythe-wielder responds groggily, cracking an eyelid open as if blinded by the cold light saturating the office. “Don’t even try to find an excuse to get me yet another new outfit. I liked my old clothes.”

“By the gods, Qrow, how are you feeling?” Clover calls out, racing to his not-boyfriend’s side, his shoulder brushing against Ironwood’s in the process. 

The answer sounds like a weak groan at first as vermillion eyes blink shut - and then more like a caw, leaving the General and his subordinate to face a slumped, sleepy crow lying atop the desk again. 

They would need to wait a while before Qrow eventually shifts back, if they want to change his clothes.

* * *

Strong arms can lift many blankets. 

Clover doesn’t regret hours of weight training, if he can put that to use by lifting all the possible blankets he could ever find all over the Academy and bringing them to Qrow. He doesn’t regret anything, if he can stand in the doorway holding up that many blankets while watching the fascinating spectacle of James changing Qrow out of his soaked outfit into something more comfortable.

The heat emanating from the fire Dust function of the General’s body warms up the whole bedroom, cranked up to full power to the point of causing a slight sheen of sweat to gather at Clover’s shoulders. Ironwood and his Ace Op leader eventually moved their corvid companion to James’s own bed to benefit for the warmth and intimacy. 

The Captain doesn’t exactly know when Qrow shifted back to his human form, probably while Clover was on his blanket scavenger hunt. He collected all the blankets he could find in the Headmaster’s apartment, his own, and Qrow’s, as well as whatever the kids and the Ace Ops could kindly lend him. 

The shapeshifter still appears deeply unconscious, much to Clover’s concern, but the General still manipulates him with utmost delicateness as if worrying he’d wake up while those ministrations and punch James in the face. Which, let’s be honest, would be very on brand. And also very painful. To ensure that Qrow’s vital organs returned to an acceptable temperature, Ironwood keeps the shifter’s torso pressed against his own Dust-powered half body while undoing the cross-shaped buttons of his shirt, carefully removing the garment from the smaller man’s unresponsive body, and neatly folding it onto the bedside table. 

Uttering a small whimper, Qrow shifts slightly in James’s grasp, burying his face into the General’s neck. Ironwood doesn’t comment or act upon it, instead focusing on the meticulous task of properly folding clothes, a blush creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. Both Clover and James ignore the elephant in the room, namely the equally perilous task of removing Qrow’s pants. Until the Ace Op senses his superior’s discomfort and rushes to his aid, ridding the scythe-wielder of those impossibly tight, impossibly wet pants - it’s by no means a swift exercise. And even though Clover may be more experienced with that than James, being friends with benefits with the shifter and all that, it still feels awkward with Qrow still being literally out cold and Ironwood trying his best not to stare. 

After all that’s done, they only have to put Qrow in Jimmy’s thickest, warmest bathrobe and bury him under the ungodly pile of blankets they gathered for this purpose. Unwilling to be smothered by said blankets, Ironwood stands up from the corner of the bed. And promptly slips onto one stray blanket layer, sending him tumbling straight to the ground. Fortunately, Clover is there to catch him before he can hurt himself - and wince at the heat at the contact of James’s skin. 

“James? Are you alright? You’re burning up.”

“Metal is a heat conductor, so even if I try to heat up my hand with Dust the heat will spread to my whole half body,” the Headmaster explains with some strain. “I just have to wait for it to cool down. It’s not too great for my heart right now.”

“Some say you’re half-human, half machine, but in reality you’re just half-human, half-personal heater. That doesn’t sound half bad.”

Chuckling, James raises one gloved hand to wipe the sweat off the metal band on his brow, letting out a pained sigh while Clover helps him back down to a seating position on the bed.

“Maybe you wouldn’t overheat so much if you didn’t wear so many layers,” the Operative suggests. 

“I know you’re in the habit of getting lucky, but how lucky were you planning to get today? How many men were you planning to undress?”

Now Clover feels heat spread over his own cheekbones. The room is very warm for sure.

“Sorry, sir, that was out of line...”

“No, no. You made a pragmatic suggestion. I was just joking.”

“It’s just that I don’t hear you joke often.”

“My teammates back at the Academy said I had a terrible sense of humour.”

“You might have in the past, but that joke wasn’t half bad. If I may offer more pragmatic suggestions, it’s okay for you to loosen up sometimes. It would be good for your health even. Even when you’re not constantly overworking yourself, you’re risking your health overheating your body to keep Qrow warm. Just relax for once and let others take care of you?”

“I just have a headache. I think I will survive.”

“I’ll get you some cold water. And paracetamol for your head. And… get more blankets for Qrow.”

They pause for a short instant, looking down at the legendary Huntsman snugly surrounded by a nest of motley blankets, before James casually wonders:

“There is no such thing as too many blankets, right?”

“There is no such thing as too many blankets.”

* * *

“Why does it smell fishy?”

“Huh?”

James has no idea when or how he’s fallen asleep, he only knows that he’s trapped in blankets and bedsheets now, and that Qrow is snuggled up to the metal side of his body. Despite the too many layers of fabric, cotton, and eiderdown atop his body, his temperature is a lot more tolerable now, and the vaguely cool touch of the shapeshifter’s arms around him are a welcome addition, feeling a lot less alarmingly frozen than previously. Feathery salt-and-pepper hair tickles his face, gently buffeted by his own breathing, and he wants to stay there forever, sensing Qrow’s hair brushing against his skin like the tide caresses the seashore. 

“Why does it smell fishy?”

“Oh, I think Clover mentioned he was making fish soup.”

Clover. Qrow’s partner, in more ways than one. James shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t insert himself into a healthy, developing relationship between two men who deserve happiness, two men he paired up together in the first place hoping that they’d be efficient and satisfied as a pair. Swiftly, he extracts himself from the nest of bedsheets, relieved to see that his jacket hangs on the coat rack by the bed. 

“Hey, stay here. It’s cold without you,” the shapeshifter whines, wrapping himself tighter among the blankets. “Don’t leave a guy with hypothermia freezing alone.”

“This is inappropriate.”

“It’s not like I’m one of your subordinates, and we can’t fraternise. It’s not like I’m Clover, or anything.”

Clover. That might be a problem too. James fell in love with the sincere smile never leaving those teal eyes the first time he saw the young man’s files, and soon after learnt to fall in love with his caring, optimistic disposition. But he should not, must not, cannot under any circumstance abuse of his power to force the Ace Op to like him back, or even let anyone know about the nature of his feelings lest the public whisper about unfair favouritism in the highest spheres of the Atlesian military. 

“Aww, got a crush? So the tin man does have a heart,” Qrow drawls, tilting his head slightly. 

“I have no idea what you’re insinuating.” 

“I mentioned Clover and you went all stuttering and blushing. I’m not blind, you know.”

Of course Qrow noticed. He’s not a spy for nothing, for crying out loud.

“I am not blushing. It’s just hot in here.”

“It’s been the same temperature in here for a while. But you’re only blushing now. You can tell me, you know. I won’t judge, as your friend. I’ll only say that you have good taste in men.”

“Why thank you, Qrow. But I would have assumed you had conflicts of interest in the matter.”

Qrow’s brows knit rather adorably in confusion before realisation dawns on him. 

“Conflict of… oh. Uh. No. I mean, yes, but… we’re dating, but we’re not dating? It’s complicated.”

“What’s complicated?" Clover intervenes, overhearing from the hallway. "Fish soup should be simple to eat. Time for dinner!”

“But it’s too cold!” Qrow wails. “Can’t I just stay in bed for a little while?”

The Ace Op shoots a desperate glance in his boss’s direction, and James can only sigh in defeat. There is nothing, absolutely nothing they can do to resist their adorable, albeit chaotic little bird.

* * *

“Why did you think that eating soup in bed and bad luck Semblance would make a good combination?” Qrow wonders, glaring daggers at Clover next to him on the bed. 

The blanket underneath his tray bears a small stain, but it’s Marrow’s, and their hearts tighten at just imagining the rookie disappointed not to get his clean blanket back. 

“I don’t know, because you were staring at us with puppy dog eyes to let you have soup in bed?” the Operative shoots back. 

“Fortunately, the soup hasn’t permeated any more layers of bedsheets,” the General states, peeling off the blankets to verify. 

“Nah, it didn’t burn me or go down to the mattress,” the shapeshifter says, “good thing we had this many layers of sheets on this bed. It's like lasagna.”

“I crave lasagna,” James replies. 

“We just had fish soup. I don’t think Qrow would be up for digesting much more,” Clover says. “So it’s tooth brushing and then time for bed.”

James is as endeared as he is grateful for Clover's healthy and caring manners, even though he finds his subordinate sometimes neglects the obvious.

“We are already in bed, Clover,” Ironwood points out. 

And that’s true. For solidarity and warmth, all three of them sit in bed, James and Clover flanking Qrow to keep him warm and make sure he stays warm and doesn’t shake too much to eat his soup. Which has been successful enough… for the most part. 

“Well I don’t know about you two,” the shifter cuts in, “but I’ve been sleeping all day, so I don’t feel sleepy right now.”

“Being unconscious from hypothermia isn’t the same as being asleep,” the Ace Op reprimands. “And you’re not in condition to go flying or training or whatever you had in mind. I don’t even know if you’d be able to make it to your own bed alone, or if I should carry you.”

“Clover, you’ve done enough work with the blankets and the soup,” the General intervenes, ”which by the way was delicious. I wouldn't mind if you leave me the strenuous task of carrying Qrow back to his own bed.”

"I'm not even certain Qrow weighs much more than this whole blanket lasagna," Clover says, fidgeting with the many layers of patterned fabrics covering his thighs. 

"But if you two are too busy fighting for the right to carry me," Qrow pouts, "who’ll be keeping me warm? Having one space heater on either side is kinda nice, I must admit."

"So what do you suggest, pretty bird?” the Captain offers. “Staying here so you can stay warm?”

“... you’re asking me? Why not await orders from your boss, bootlicker?”

Clover blushes slightly at the playful tease, before James intervenes. 

“We all defer to your good judgement, Qrow.”

“Fine. But don’t expect me to go to sleep right now.”

“Movie?” the Operative suggests, eyeing the seldom-used television against the wall of Ironwood’s bedroom. 

“Movie time it is”, James sighs. “Gentlemen, I trust you won’t struggle much to find something I haven’t watched yet.”

“Same here, I’ve been on the road for a hot minute before getting to Atlas and haven’t really had time to put my butt down in a cinema since,” the shapeshifter groans.

“Let me see,” Clover peers through some list on his Scroll, the bright colours of garish posters causing Qrow to blink rapidly. “How about this one?”

* * *

James shouldn’t be staying. 

Granted, it’s his own bed. Granted, and his metal half is doing its job of keeping Qrow warm, snugly nested between himself and Clover. Granted, he does want to see the end of the movie and figured out what that character’s much-hyped Semblance is going to be. 

But he shouldn’t be staying. 

Not when poor Clover is dozing off onto the shapeshifter’s scrawny shoulder, creating a shift in the mattress that Ironwood’s half-flesh behind can acutely sense. Not when he’s third-wheeling to those two lovers who deserve each other, who deserve to be happy - he’d do anything just to ensure their happiness, when he’d already passed his own chance at happiness. Not when Qrow grumbles fondly, nudging his not-boyfriend to rouse him in the semi-darkness only illuminated by the TV screen. 

“Huh? Sorry, I’m just kinda tired,” the Ace Op mumbles, running a hand through his unkempt mess of chestnut hair. “Some of us have been running around all day on missions on the tundra and haven’t had the chance to catch a nap since.”

James has been meaning to tell Clover to catch a break. But it’s hard when the General sets such a poor example himself. 

That’s why Clover has Qrow. That’s why James decided that Clover should have Qrow. Because they’re perfect matches for one another, just as Ironwood willed. Everything is under control. Nothing is out of place.

“Aw, you missed all the fish stew part,” Qrow bemoans, running lazy fingers up and down his lucky charm’s bare forearm. “I thought that’d be one of your favourite parts in the movie, after the super dark beginning.”

“Really? Did I miss all the straw too?”

“Nope, no straw. Not the slightest bit of straw since the very start.”

“But isn’t that the exact opposite of what the title promised,” Clover whines. 

“I think it’s supposed to be metaphorical,” the Headmaster declares. 

Qrow peers at the screen in renewed interest, taking in the meaning of James’s suggestion while following the dialogue between the actors. Nothing is out of place. Everything is under control.

“In that case, not that I don’t enjoy it, but I’d better head to bed,” the Ace Op yawns. “I’m too tired to stay awake.”

“Need help staying up, lucky charm?” the shifter taunts, before leaning in to kiss Clover. 

James shouldn’t be staying. He’s intruded on too much already. 

The two lovers move slowly in the dark, mapping each other blindly, finding each other perfectly, fitting flawlessly in each other’s embrace. They shift on the mattress, falling into a gentle cadenza that’s as natural as breathing, as natural as existing… and even James’s breathing is not natural, the soft clicking of metal echoing as his chest rises and falls, and he shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t be upsetting the balance of fates and fortunes and misfortunes, the balance they’d worked so hard to achieve, the balance he carries on his shoulders like the weight of Atlas, the fragile balance that’d crumble under the effect of his iron and flesh hands, crumble like a castle of cards, crumble like the time half his world crumbled out of control…

And then, they part from the kiss. And Qrow swivels over to press his lips to Ironwood’s. 

And then, James stops thinking. Qrow’s lips should be warmed by Clover’s tongue, yet they’re cold, and time freezes, everything freezes. The General has been wanting this for such a long time, for so much time he can’t even think about how to make up for lost time, his certainties splintering like too thin ice, his mind spiralling into a thousand possibilities. But each possibility remains an unanswered question, because he can’t understand. 

Why is Qrow kissing him, again and again, tangling those long, diaphanous fingers through his hair as if to anchor himself, as if his life depended on it? Why are his humid lips so soft, so careful, as if lulling him in reassurance that this is okay, this is all okay, and this is all how it should be? Why does the tip of that agile tongue grace his cupid’s bow with such adoration, and why isn’t Clover doing anything to stop them while Qrow is giving Ironwood a meagre consolation prize so he doesn’t feel left out? 

He expects to be left out. 

He doesn’t need Qrow, Clover, or anyone to make the world fair. 

Because the world isn’t fair, has never been fair, will never be fair, and James is used to bearing the burden of its unfairness.

But the world may be unfair, the world may be bent, the world may be broken, Remnant may fade away, the stars may fall out of their constellations, and James wouldn’t have noticed. Not while Qrow’s mouth is travelling down the column of his neck, pecking languidly with enough fervour to make Ironwood’s eyelids flutter shut, fireworks blinking into existence before his irises. 

“Jimmy… you have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this.”

James isn’t a man for words. He isn’t a man to play games or beat around the bush. Right now, his mind can only conjure the truth, and his lips can only speak the truth. 

“Me too, Qrow.”

“Then why aren’t you kissing back, dammit?”

Because life shouldn’t be fair. Because you and Clover should be happy, and I shouldn’t be holding you back. 

“You and Clover...”

“Both want you,” the shapeshifter assures with unshakable certainty before kissing down even deeper, the briefest flicker of tongue against Ironwood’s collarbones eliciting a soft, muffled moan. 

“Is this some kind of sexual fantasy you two planned?” the General prompts.

Because he can’t believe it. It can’t be for real. It can’t...

“Uh guys?” Clover sighs, shifting among the blankets to insistently grind against his boyfriend’s ass while he continues to nibble on Jimmy’s flesh side. “Is this a really bad time to say that I really like you both?”

Clover must have switched off the movie, because all background noise is quieter now. James can hear his heartbeat resonating in his half-metal chest. The Captain is usually solemn, dignified even, and James can’t help his heart from tightening at the sight of how naturally Qrow can make the Ace Op unravel utterly. His heart is tightening, and he can’t tell if it’s jealousy or desire, not that he’s sure he wants to know.

“Yeah, Cloves and I would really want you to be part of our relationship.”

The shapeshifter’s hand cups James’s jaw, a calloused thumb rummaging through his beard like a bird preens its feathers.

“Hold up, was that… a lucky guess?” Clover pants. “Because we never really discussed that.”

Clover can’t stop rubbing into Qrow, causing a friction between the scythe-wielder’s erection and James’s own member through the many layers of blankets and clothing. It’s getting awfully hot in here. Maybe Clover’s thrusts are just that precisely aimed, or maybe he’s just that lucky. Who knows.

“Based on what you just said? And on the few times we agreed Jimmy’s hot? And on how much you keep babbling about how much you respect and admire him for his work and everything he’s done for you?”

“Well, I was gonna bring that up with you, Qrow, but then I realised I had no idea how I would then bring that up to my boss, out of all people who-”

“Yes,” James interrupts.

“... What?” Clover and Qrow gasp in unison, momentarily pausing their grinding motion that Ironwood desperately misses already.

“Yes, I also deeply care for both of you. So I’d like to try.”

“Really? That I’m your subordinate doesn’t bother you? Or that none of us have ever been in this kind of relationship before?” Clover’s voice cracks with hopeful disbelief, and even in the darkness James can easily imagine the twinkle in those breathtaking teal eyes. 

“I’m willing to try.”

And that means nothing. No certainties, no promises, no control. Nothing.

And yet, that means everything. 

Whether what fragile balance they had was broken, whichever side Remnant may tip into the abyss, whatever ensued to the weight atop James’s shoulders… right here, right now, it doesn’t mean anything. 

Because finally, Qrow kisses him again. And finally, he moves in response, ravishing the shifter’s lips with his tongue as if to keep them warm, always warm, forever warm. And Qrow’s lips are still too cold, still slightly quivering, and it’s still not perfect, but they’re willing to try. Clover’s strong hands reach for the collar of the General’s shirt, tugging tentatively, clumsily, but they’re willing to try. James can’t breathe and it’s too hot but it’s too cold and he groans hungrily into the kiss, the hint of sharp teeth grazing his tongue in response only egging him on further. 

The Headmaster truly wouldn’t mind if Clover decided to strangle him right now, but he doesn’t want to break the kiss to voice that, because Qrow’s savage scent is heady and he wants more. He wants more, because it’s not enough, but it’s too much, and so many deft fingers are dancing across his skin in a dizzying ballet… He wants more, and Qrow keeps on giving, even though he doesn’t have much heat left to give. Qrow keeps on giving and giving, and James doesn’t get, can’t get, will never get how this man can keep giving after how much fate, fortune, and misfortune have bent him, have scarred him, have tried to break him and failed. 

James doesn’t get it, but he admires it, welcomes it, loves it, loves it, loves it so impossibly much. 

So he revels in it, revels in the tongue that caresses each of his teeth, that explores his palate, revels in the sounds that pour out the throat of his pretty bird straight into his own mouth. He revels in it, reduced to a mess of stuttering moans that mean nothing, that mean everything, that convey his desire, his crave, his need to care for his bird, keep him warm and happy at all costs. 

Apparently, Clover must have had the same idea, because the Operative has swiftly untied the ribbon holding the shifter’s bathrobe together, his large hands massaging the lithe ivory shoulders with enticing symmetry, terrifying symmetry, exhilarating symmetry, molding them to his liking with pure reverence painted over his even features. And James can’t wait any more, he reaches for the nape of the Specialist’s neck and pulls him in for a searing kiss. 

The bony surface of Qrow’s shoulder stands between them, its angles sharp as bird’s wings digging into James’s chest. Clover tastes like fish soup, and James isn’t surprised, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love it. The Ace Op kisses gently, yet greedily, and untamed electricity trickles through each inch of their skins where they touch. Each spark is saturated with good luck, and Ironwood knows that right now, as long as they’re together, nothing wrong can ever happen again.

Shuddering between them, Qrow’s back suddenly straightens and arches backward, a wordless moan escaping the shifter’s kiss-swollen lips. Whispering sweet nothings, Clover bends over to press a soft peck atop their pretty bird’s feathery hair, earning another wanton whine. Only then does James realise just how deeply Clover’s fingers are buried into Qrow’s pale ass, causing the shifter’s dick to weep in response. 

The Captain fingers his partner like he does anything, like he fights, like he works, with passion, with meticulousness. Clover’s ministrations are careful, calculated, like thunder contained in a glass bottle, and each of Qrow’s whimpers in response begs, wants, needs the tempest to break free, unfurling its full power. 

James has always known Clover’s a multitasker, it came up when he first interviewed the brunette to come work for him. He just had no idea how useful multitasking could be until now. Still that can’t explain how...

“How did you find the lube?” the General whispers lowly, dangerously. 

“Went straight for the third drawer. Just an inkling,” Clover replies, pressing his forehead against his superior officer’s as if they could stay like this, entwined forever, and that would be heaven. 

“How do you ever do anything straight, lucky charm?” Qrow interjects, 

“... went gay for the third drawer?”

Before the Ace Op can embarrass himself more, James silences him with another kiss - barely a press of lips, followed too soon by cold air ghosting their humid mouths. But Clover must do his duty, peppering Qrow’s skin with love bites all the way down the pallid arch of his alabaster neck while his fingers do their miraculous work. The scythe-wielder’s other space heater operates just as efficiently, both flesh and metal fingers exploring the toned surface of his chest, memorising every line, every curve, every muscle, every scar. Qrow practically mewls when a cold steel thumb graces one of his nipples, and by way of apology Ironwood has no choice but to bend down and collect the chilled nub into his hot mouth. 

As he sucks, licks, bites and marvels at the delectable sounds their bird can produce in response, his hands travel down to Qrow’s erection, letting the shifter fuck into his iron grip at the rate set by Clover’s fingers relentlessly twitching deep in his behind. The pace is agonisingly slow at first, until suddenly it’s fast, too fast, and Qrow must bite down onto James’s flesh shoulder to muffle a groan. Then it slows, suddenly. And the world stops. And time stops, time freezes over. Remnant can freeze over, Remnant can burn, it doesn’t matter, everything has ceased to matter and the edge of the bed is the edge of the world now. 

Only then does Clover’s erect member enter the shapeshifter’s entrance. Qrow’s entire body stiffens at that, arching into Ironwood’s embrace. Pressing his hands to the scythe-wielder’s hips, James holds him in place for the Ace Op to thrust into. A metal thumb swipes against Qrow’s hipbone, and James has no idea why but he’s always dreamed to do that. It’s exactly as he hoped, yet infinitely superior with the reaction of sharp teeth digging into James’s clavicle, nearly piercing through his Aura. 

“Won’t… last… long… ahhhh...” the shifter stammers, his eyes rolling all the way back when Clover hits the exact right spot that causes stars to fall out of the sky.

James knows that, but he wants to be selfish. For a man who has dedicated his whole life for the greater good can be selfish, just this once, just to steal this one night from the eternity of history. He wants to be selfish, he wants Qrow to come inside of him, he wants the man’s sweet, sweet release to fill his half-flesh insides with heat. He wants to have the size, the shape, the curvature of Qrow’s dick engraved into his posterior forever, the entirety of him in all his damaged glory, he wants to take everything that Qrow can give, and then some. And he wants to face Qrow while that happens, to look into those crimson eyes he’s adored for so many years and see just how utterly unravelled the pretty bird can become. 

The General apologises with gentle kisses to Qrow’s cheeks as he spreads the cold lube onto the scythe-wielder’s cock. Qrow’s been cold enough today, he deserves better, but James can be selfish. Besides, the insides of him are warm enough, he judges as deft fingers help his hasty metal hand prepare his own opening, caressing him back to front, rubbing sinful circles, too cold circles that leave his mind numb and his thoughts blissfully incoherent. 

James once (usually) had enough iron will to move mountains and command armies, but right now his willpower is only enough to grab Qrow’s member and position it at entrance - where it belongs, his mind oh so helpfully supplies. 

James was once cold, careful, methodical, but right now his inhibitions are but faded scars, forgotten ruins of another time, as he desperately rides onto the shapeshifter’s erection. He’s vaguely aware of Clover mounting Qrow into his own climax, but he wants to be selfish. Snarling, the General claims the brunette’s mouth in a bruising kiss, a wet mess of clashing teeth and burning lips, because he wants to be selfish. He’s vaguely aware of Qrow’s body spasming as he nears his release, slumping bonelessly between the Headmaster and the Ace Op after the heat finally, finally exploded out of him, staining the walls of James’s insides. 

He’s vaguely aware of all of that, but his only anchor, his only lifeline is the sight of vermillion eyes in the semi-darkness, burning though him, boring through him with utter trust, utter love before they flutter close, beautiful, so beautiful, holding his gaze until the last second. 

And that’s enough to send James straight to his own orgasm, shattering gravity, shattering the burden that weighted atop his shoulders, sending his soul soaring, plummeting, burning, drowning, and nothing else exists but pure pleasure. 

Pure pleasure, and his two lovers finally  _ warm _ , rested, safe between his arms. 

For a while, time stops again. But it’s not frozen, it’s warm, soft, like blankets, like Qrow’s hair as James mindlessly runs his fingers through the unkempt strands. 

The shapeshifter snores softly between his two lovers, exhausted and entirely spent. Eventually, the atmosphere lightens, and Clover and James start kissing again on either side of him, softly, hesitantly. Every touch is gentle, as if they’re falling in love for the first time. Every breath is desperate, as if they’re kissing for the last time, pouring all the love, the admiration, the care, the everything into each searing touch. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Clover exhales, entwining his fingers with Jimmy’s metal hand, admiring the soft, warm glow as the bedside lamp reflects off the steel, and that’s enough, for now that’s all that James needs to hear.

They’d have stayed like this forever, if it weren’t for the mess to clean. That, and some stomachs rumbling in protest.

“I think we deserve lasagna now,” Clover chuckles, running gentle fingers through the General’s beard. 

“Luckily for you, I ordered some online while we were watching the movie,” Ironwood says, “the drone should arrive any minute now.”

James fights back the urge to wink, he doesn’t know what those two men have done to him but it’s something, it’s most definitely something. 

“Can the drone deliver food directly to bed?”

“No, Clover, but we can go collect it at the window.”

“Fine. I’ll go. You stay here and keep Qrow warm.”

“Sir, yes sir,” the General deadpans fondly, making sure Clover doesn’t steal too many blankets from the bed to wear on his way out to the window. 

After all, one can never get too many blankets. 

* * *

“The lasagna’s cold.” Clover sighs, returning to the bedroom with a plastic box in his hands and nothing but blankets wrapped around his naked body, trailing behind him like so many oversized capes. “It must have been waiting out here for a while.”

“Not to worry,” James assures, grinning at the sight of the Ace Op’s jaw dropping as he presses a switch to activate the fire Dust function on his metal arm. 

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t end the movie not out of disrespect, but just because I have no idea how Straw ends so if you wanna know, go bug Andy and read all their content and shower them with love because their work is awesome.  
> I’m already seeing a lasagna sequel to this, maybe for the next 24th? Who knows. (new OT4: Qrow, James, Clover, lasagna?)  
> Happy monthly birthday I guess xx


End file.
